


sparks fly

by griffenly



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-31 23:33:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3997384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griffenly/pseuds/griffenly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy needs a date to his sister’s wedding, and who better to ask than the maid of honor herself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	sparks fly

The invitation came in a beautiful, cream-colored envelope, and it had been embossed in gold lettering, and although Clarke loved them, she had also been the one painstakingly shoving them into the innumerable envelopes. She remembered asking Octavia if inviting that many people was really necessary, and receiving a glare and a muttered, you sound like Bellamy, but she had had paper cuts for days, so, really.

She stared at that very same invitation now, heaving a sigh. It had been months of planning, but there were only a few weeks left until the wedding now, and as much as she loved her best friend, Clarke was exhausted. Octavia had been dreaming of this day for years, and by the time Lincoln had come around and proposed (all within about six months, much to Bellamy’s chagrin, as Clarke was fortunate enough to hear about every fucking day), she had had everything organized to a T. Which, in some respects, made planning easy. In others, not quite. (Clarke internally shuddered at the Lily Flower Debacle of 2014 that had ensued when the florist Octavia had picked out didn’t have the precise shade of lilies she wanted.)

And as Clarke poured herself another glass of wine, curling her legs beneath her as she pondered the cardstock invitation, clutching it between her thumb and index finger, she couldn’t help but feel a little… sad. Because ever since their junior year of high school, it had just been Octavia and Clarke, always and forever. (And Bellamy, too, but that hadn’t really come until Clarke had started college.) But now her best friend was getting married, for fuck’s sake, and Raven had started dating Wick about a month ago, and Monty and Miller had finally, finally gotten their shit together (Bellamy and Clarke’s handiwork, thank you very much), and Maya and Jasper were disgustingly cute, and now it was just Clarke

And, well. Him.

As though on cue (honestly, his timing was downright terrifying ninety percent of the time), there was a knock on her door, and Clarke sighed again as she set down her wine and stood to answer it. She undid the chain and opened the door widely, only to see a very distressed and dissheveled Bellamy leaning heavily against the doorframe and nearly toppling over into the room when the door swung inwards. Clarke bit down on her laugh and quirked an eyebrow at him, but he merely shoved his way into her apartment, running a hand through his already-wild curls.

She realized immediately that he was shaken up, judging by the slight tremble to the aforementioned hand and the terse, unsteady pacing that was occurring in her living room. She closed the door and moved towards him slowly, one hand reached out as though towards a frightened animal, and when her fingers grazed his arm he jumped slightly.

“Bell?” she asked tentatively.  

“I’m going to fucking kill her,” he muttered darkly, and only once the words were uttered did he stop pacing, choosing instead to collapse on her couch. Clarke simply laughed, and went to the kitchen to grab a beer out of the fridge. She popped off the top and handed it to him when he reentered the room, and he gave her a grateful smile.

“I’m going to assume you’re talking about Octavia,” she stated as she placed herself on the right end of the couch, her knees pulled into her chest as she faced him and he faced the coffee table.

Bellamy rubbed a hand over his face, and she realized he looked completely and utterly wrecked, must have come straight to her place after his shift, and the thought made her stomach flutter, a little, to think that he considered this place one version of home. (She shook her head, because, well - more pressing matters at hand.) “She’s trying to get me a date for the wedding,” he groaned miserably, “and I can’t do it, Clarke. I can’t. It will more than likely end in bloodshed, and then I’ll get a lecture about ‘sullying her marriage’ or some other shit like that, and - ”

Clarke snorted. “First of all, Octavia doesn’t use the word sullying. Second of all - why would it be so bad?”

He stared at her, completely straight-faced and maybe a little incredulous, as though she was supposed to inherently know all about why this was such a travesty taking place. “Clarke,” he said dully, “every single time Octavia sets me up with someone, it ends horribly. Every. Single. Time.”

Clarke rolled her eyes, grabbing her previously-forgotten wine glass from the table and taking a sip. “Then why don’t you, I don’t know, just tell her you don’t want to go with any of those girls? That you’re going alone?”

“Because she won’t listen to me!” he half-yelled, throwing his hands in the air, and Clarke was infinitely glad he hadn’t spilled any of the beer on the carpet, because that would have been a pain in the ass to -

Clarke ceased in her thoughts when she saw a dawning look spread over Bellamy’s face, and she had known him for far too long to take that lightly. “What?” she asked nervously, pulling her knees a little bit farther into her chest and watching him with unease.

“You go as my date!”

She almost choked on her wine.

“What?”

He turned towards her, now, his beer abandoned on the coffee table and his knees bumping her legs as he moved forward. A wicked smirk had spread across his features, eyes alight with excitement and a little bit of something else that Clarke couldn’t quite place, and she took a sip of her wine to hide her nervousness. “C’mon, Griffin, it’s not like you’re going with anyone.” She scoffed at him, but he simply raised an eyebrow, as though daring her to contradict the statement, and she sighed. “Besides, it makes sense. All the rest of our friends have dates except for us. And then Octavia can tell her friend that we’re dating, and all problems solved!” 

“But we’re just going as friends, in reality, right?” she clarified, and she wasn’t sure why her heart was beating a staccato rhythm right now, because it was Bellamy, but she chose not to dwell on it. Bellamy’s smirk merely expanded, revealing the dimple in his cheek and the white gleam of his teeth, and he was so close, his breath ghosting across her face (when did he get that close, oh my god).

“Whatever the hell you want, Clarke,” he murmured, and she swallowed thickly at his suggestive wink that accompanied it. He leaned back to his previous position and grabbed his beer off the table, smiling into his bottle, and Clarke hid her blush behind her wine glass.

Fucking hell, Griffin.

This wedding was going to ruin her.

See, this is how it happened:

Awkward, gangly, sixteen-year-old Clarke Griffin moved to a new city, to a place where she knew no one. Her father was dead, she wasn’t speaking to her mother, she had a severe teen angst facade that was barricading her pent-up grief and anger and hurt, the kind of pain that twisted its roots around her heart and had been tended to generously by her strategy of concealing her anguish. And it was in that way, when she had a scowl on her face and a well-worn paperback clutched between her fingers, that Octavia Blake quite literally shoved herself into her life. (She had asked about the book, sitting down unceremoniously, and rather bluntly asking why the fuck she always looked as though she was ready to murder someone.)

(Instant friendship.)

And because she hated her mother, and because she had no one else that she knew in that God-forsaken town, she practically grew up in that ramshackle house on the outskirts, the place that housed Octavia and her overly-protective older brother, Bellamy, where they’d moved after their mother had died. Bellamy had raised her for the majority of her life, she’d told Clarke once in a whisper as they laid on the roof and gazed at the stars.

And while she loved Octavia, she fucking hated Bellamy Blake.

He was rude and crass and had a new girl on his arm every time she saw him outside of the house, and he gave her condescending smirks and called her princess because she lived in that big house on the hill that could practically be seen from a satellite. He was endlessly infuriating, also, because he was intelligent, and opinionated, and he fought her tooth and nail every time a topic of interest came up.

She wasn’t sure when or how or why it had happened, but suddenly Bellamy no longer called Clarke princess. And suddenly those fights that left Octavia nearly out of her mind had become friendly and entertaining sparring matches. And suddenly Clarke was with Bellamy without Octavia, hanging out to watch a movie or a stupid documentary he had picked out, because, as with everything else, not all was as it seemed, and Bellamy was actually a secret nerd.

(And suddenly, the girls stopped appearing on Bellamy’s arm and in his bed. And suddenly, his eyes lit up just a little bit more when she walked into the room, and his smile was a little wider, and his arm fit naturally around the back of her seat whenever they were beside each other. And suddenly, all those creepy boys that used to hit on she and Octavia at the bar disappeared, mysteriously, apologizing profusely because they didn’t realize, sorry.)

(Clarke didn’t know about that, though.)

Hindsight, as they always say, is 20/20.

Bellamy had apparently left it up to Clarke to tell Octavia that they were going to the wedding instead of Bellamy and Rome, or whatever the fuck the girl’s name was (“Seriously, what happened to the classic Mary and Susan and Julia?” she had lamented, and Octavia gave her a serious look and said, “My brother decided to name me Octavia, because Augustus had a sister.” The argument had been finished.) When the words finally fumbled from her mouth, in a rushed, nonsensical gurgle - it wasn’t a big deal, honestly, she wasn’t sure why it seemed so strange to tell Octavia - her best friend simply gave her a glowing smile, a chirped, “Wonderful!” and then the conversation continued on.

It was a bit suspicious, really.

But Clarke didn’t have time to dwell on that, because, well, the wedding was now only two weeks away, and she had shit to get done, dammit.

(When she went home later that day, she tried on her maid of honor dress, and tried not to wonder what Bellamy would think of it.)

The day of the wedding, everything went perfectly.

Which was the least Clarke had expected, because they had been planning for so long and to such an extent that she was certain she had lost a minimum of six years off her life.

But Octavia looked stunning, in her fitted, pearl-white gown, her hair placed into intricate braids that wrapped around her head. (She had made Clarke wear her own hair in a braided crown, and she already knew what Bellamy would say.)

(She tried not to think of Bellamy.)

(Failed.)

As they lined up in front of the aisle, watching as Raven and Monroe made their way down, both dressed in beautiful, cranberry-colored dresses, the same as Clarke’s, she turned around one last time to her best friend. “You are beautiful, and I could not be more proud of you,” she whispered, squeezing her hands tightly.

“If you make me ruin my makeup right before I walk down this aisle, I will fucking end you, Griffin,” Octavia whispered back, but there was a smile on her face, so bright it lit up the entire room, and Clarke winked.

And then she walked.

It was a bit awkward, having everyone stare at her like that; she was trying to keep time to the music, like they’d practiced, and the smile on her face really was a genuine one, but it wasn’t until her eyes locked with Bellamy’s at the other end of the aisle - he stood behind Lincoln, in a dark tux that made him look way too good to be legal - she felt the nervousness drift away, just a little bit. He was looking at her in a way that was almost… reverent, his mouth a little agape and his eyes fixated only on her, dark and warm and so, so Bellamy, and before she’d realized it she was at the other end of that eternal aisle.

She stood in front of Raven, who elbowed her and whispered, “Really subtle, there, Griffin.” She elbowed her friend back, blushing a bit when she looked up again to find Bellamy’s eyes still watching her, a soft look on his face.

But just then, the music began again and everyone stood, turning towards the front of the aisle where Octavia stood alone (“I want to walk myself down the aisle,” she had told a very disgruntled Bellamy, “because this is my next step. It’s for me, Bell. Let it be mine.”), radiant and haloed by the waning afternoon light filtering in through the church. She looked like a warrior goddess, her head held high, a determined gleam in her eye and a broad smile stretching across her face, and Clarke was certain no one had ever looked more beautiful.

The pastor asked, “Who gives this woman to this man to be married?” And Octavia firmly replied, “Me.”

Clarke met Bellamy’s eyes across the couple, and everything felt perfect.

They were seated beside each other, a champagne flute in each hand, and Bellamy had his arm draped loosely around the back of her chair. She was a few glasses in, and she felt good, dammit, watching Lincoln and Octavia twirl on the dance floor, enraptured by each other, lost to the world. She heard Bellamy sighed, and it made her laugh, a little; a soft, bubbling thing that only came out on rare occasions, but this… this was good. Her best friend was happy, and in love, and her other best friend was arguing over some mechanical engineering shit that she didn’t understand with her own boyfriend, and Monty and Miller were sharing a piece of cake in the corner, and Jasper and Maya were on the dance floor, doing something ridiculous - and it was good.

“Shit,” Bellamy swore beside her, and she frowned slightly, because that was not good, and she cocked her head a bit towards him as he whispered in her ear, “Roma is over there.”

Oh. Right. The-almost-date.

And then Clarke had an idea.

“Well,” she said surely, even though her legs trembled a bit, “Octavia told her we were dating, right?”

Bellamy nodded slowly. “Then let’s give her a show,” she whispered, standing and a reaching a hand out to him. He gave her that look, again, the one she couldn’t quite gauge, before taking her hand and smiling widely, leading her out to the dance floor.

A slow song was playing now, and Clarke wound her arms around Bellamy’s neck as his own settled on her waist, and it felt natural, the two of them like this, pressed so closely together with barely a breath’s space between them. Clarke laid her cheek against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. She shivered a bit when he whispered into her ear, “You look beautiful tonight, by the way.”

She hid her smile in his shirt, and murmured, “You’re not so bad yourself, you know.”

Clarke almost collapsed at the look on his face, when she finally looked up again. It was that awestruck expression she had seen before, mixed with that something else that she finally, finally identified, and it made her heart stutter and soar all at once, and she saw the tall, dark-haired girl Bellamy had identified as Roma standing in the corner, watching the two of them almost possessively, and if this new plan in her head all went to shit she was most definitely blaming it on the multiple glasses of champagne she had consumed.   
 “You know, Roma is still watching us.”

Bellamy hummed. “Is she?”

“Yep. We might want to steer her off, before she tries to swoop in and steal you or something.” He grinned at her, that wonderful, lopsided one that she loved so much, and that he seemed to only reserve for her. “Any ideas?” she added.

His eyes darkened, and she only barely had time to process the words, “Well, there is one thing,” before suddenly his lips were on hers.

She groaned into his mouth, reaching her hands up to tangle in the curls at the nape of his neck as he sucked her upper lip in between his, and it felt like coming home, kissing him. He tasted like chocolate strawberries and champagne, and he tasted like a beginning, like pent-up longing and half-forgotten memories. He tasted like Bellamy.

When he finally tore himself away from her, he dropped his forehead onto her own, and whispered, “So is she gone?”

Dazed, Clarke asked, “What? Is who gone?”

Bellamy chuckled, and the sound reverberated throughout her body, covering her face in his hot breath. (She liked that sound. She could get used to that sound.) “Really, princess, if you wanted to kiss me, you didn’t need to use her as an excuse.” (There was something that felt a lot like love in the way he said the old nickname, now.)

She kissed the smile away from his face and murmured, “Duly noted,” against his lips.

(Octavia cheered from the other side of the dance floor, and Monty and Jasper high-fived, and Clarke and Bellamy danced.)

(Oh, and they did a lot more than kiss, and it was most definitely not for anyone else’s benefit.)


End file.
